‘No, no!’ Mum said quickly. ‘No, we didn’t want to arrive too early, like.’ The ‘like’ jumped out of her lips before she could stop it. She clamped her mouth shut, going red.
‘I think we’re all spot on time,’ said Miss French, opening the gate and marching up the wide pathway.
We followed along behind her. Miss French rapped hard at the door. Mum took a step backwards, obviously worried the Wilberforces would think it was her hammering at their front door. It opened almost immediately, as if someone had been crouching on the other side. Mum went redder.
‘Hello hello hello,’ said a tall man with a beard.
He was wearing a very grubby yellow cardigan with leather buttons, two of them missing, a checked shirt with a frayed collar, very baggy corduroy trousers and slippers.
‘How do you do, Mr Wilberforce,’ said Mum, sounding strained. ‘Girls, this is the head of Melchester College.’
Jodie burst out laughing, startling us. ‘Don’t be daft, Mum, he’s the gardener,’ she said.
‘Jodie!’ said Mum, giving her a little shake.
‘Button it, Jodie,’ Dad whispered, looking agonized.
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met up earlier in the kitchen garden. I am also the headmaster here at the college, but that’s just the day job. I’m only really happy rootling away like a pig in . . . whatsit. Isn’t that right, Frenchie?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Miss French, chuckling.
‘Do come in, Mr and Mrs Wells. It’s wonderful to see you. I hope you’re settling in nicely. Now, I’ve already met you, Little Miss Raspberry Guzzler.
And you must be . . .?’ He bent towards me.
‘This is Pearl,’ said Mum. ‘Say how do you do to Mr Wilberforce, Pearl.’
I mumbled it foolishly, wishing I wasn’t so shy.
Jodie had already bounded inside. Then she stopped so abruptly that I bumped into her. There was a woman in a wheelchair in the hallway. She had an embroidered Spanish shawl wrapped round her legs. She was quite old, her face wrinkled under thick make-up, her ash-blonde hair falling in soft waves past her shoulders. She was wearing a loose floaty lilac dress, with big amethyst beads round her neck and several huge rings on her small white hands. Only one of her arms worked. She gestured with it, while the other arm hung down, the hand clenched.
‘Are you Mrs Wilberforce?’ Jodie asked uncertainly.
I think we were both scared she couldn’t talk properly. She hesitated, and then took a deep breath. She smiled politely, though her eyes didn’t light up.
‘Yes, I am, my dear. And you are . . . Josie?’
‘Jodie. And this is my sister, Pearl.’
‘How lovely to meet you both, Jodie and Pearl.
Come into the sitting room. Make yourselves comfortable on the sofa.’
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We sat down obediently, Jodie stroking the slippery satin cushions and saying how pretty they were.
‘Hey, hey, off that sofa! You two sit on the little chairs,’ said Mum, bustling into the room.
‘Mrs Wilberforce told us to sit here,’ said Jodie.
‘Didn’t you?’
‘Indeed I did,’ she said. ‘Please, all of you, come and sit down. Harold, darling, would you pour everyone a drink? What would you like, Mrs Wells?’
Mum hesitated. She didn’t drink anything alco-holic at home, and the rare times we all had lunch in a pub garden Mum had a lemonade shandy.
‘I’d like a sherry, please,’ she said, rather desperately.
‘Certainly. Amontillado coming straight up,’ said Mr Wilberforce. ‘Frenchie, you’ll have your usual G
and T? And what about you, sir?’ He looked at Dad.
‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a beer . . . sir?’ said Dad.
Mum glared at him, but Mr Wilberforce grinned.
‘You bet I have. Bottle for you, bottle for me.
Cynthia, wine? And what about you two young ladies?’
‘We’re not fussy,’ said Jodie. ‘I’d really like a beer, but wine will be fine.’
Mum opened her mouth but Mr Wilberforce was rocking with laughter.
‘You’ll have half a thimble-full of wine and count yourself lucky, Miss Cheeky,’ he said. ‘What about you, little Pearl? Don’t tell me you’re a beer girl too.’
‘She’d like an orange juice, please,’ said Mum.
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answer for myself. Jodie chatted away to everyone and they all laughed at her. Mum kept giving her warning looks but Dad beamed at her proudly. I sat on the edge of the sofa, legs dangling, sipping my orange juice carefully. I peered all around the room.
There were paintings of ballet dancers in fluffy tutus exercising at the bar, and white china dancers pirouetting, permanently poised on one toe. I wondered if Mrs Wilberforce had been a ballet dancer herself and had had some tragic accident on stage, leaving her crippled in her chair. I pointed my feet this way and that, copying the dance positions.
‘Pearl! Stop fidgeting! And mind you don’t mark the sofa!’ Mum hissed.
Mr Wilberforce and Miss French and Dad were all chatting about the garden and the grounds and playing fields and then cricket, with Jodie cutting in and saying funny stuff. Mum was a bit left out of the conversation.
She turned towards Mrs
Wilberforce, who was staring into space, making no attempt to be a hostess.
‘Can I help with anything in the kitchen, Mrs Wilberforce?’ said Mum. ‘Seeing as you’re . . .’
Mrs Wilberforce raised her eyebrows. ‘No, no, it’s fine,’ she said firmly. She saw me looking agonized.
‘Are you all right, Pearl?’ she asked.
I nodded, ducking my head.
‘You’re very quiet!’ said Mrs Wilberforce.
‘It’s our Jodie who’s the chatterbox,’ said Mum.
‘Perhaps this one can’t get a word in edgeways,’
said Mrs Wilberforce. She nodded at me, tossing her long pale hair. ‘Tell me all about yourself.’
My mouth went dry. I tried to swallow.
‘She’s a bit shy,’ said Mum.
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‘Come on,’ Mrs Wilberforce commanded.
‘Well,’ I said. Everyone else had stopped talking.
‘Well,’ I repeated. The silence was unnerving. ‘Well.’
‘Wella wella wella,’ sang Jodie, starting the old Grease song, jogging up and down on the sofa.
Everyone laughed, but Mrs Wilberforce wouldn’t let me off so lightly.
‘Ssh!’ she said to Jodie, her fingers to her lips.
‘Let your sister talk.’
‘Well, my name’s Pearl and I’m nearly eleven though I know I look heaps younger,’ I said in a rush. They were all looking at me. I looked down at my lap, my hands clasped tight. I waited. It wasn’t enough.
‘Talk about school, Pearl,’ Mum prompted. ‘She’s very bright, even though she’s so quiet. Always top of the class.’
‘Mum!’ I said. It sounded such awful showing off.
‘Which subject do you like best?’ said Mr Wilberforce.
‘Well . . . literacy. And art,’ I said.
‘So you like reading?’
‘Never got her head out of a book,’ Mum said proudly, though she often told me off for reading so much, saying I’d strain my eyes and develop a squint.
‘Good to hear it,’ said Mr Wilberforce. ‘Cynthia’s a great reader, aren’t you, darling?’
‘Come with me, Pearl,’ she said.
She wheeled herself out of the living room, bracelets jingling. Mum gave me a little push. I didn’t want to follow her, but I shuffled obediently in her wake. We went down a corridor
and then she opened a wide door and wheeled herself inside. I 72
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breathed in the strange musty smell of old books.
It was a real library, with shelves on every wall, though they only came up to my head. They’d obviously been specially made so that Mrs Wilberforce could comfortably reach all her books from her wheelchair. There were paintings hung at the top: more ballet dancers, women in long dresses, children playing in gardens. It was hard making them out because the room just had one light, a very pretty stained-glass lamp in the shape of a big flower.
‘Do you like my library?’ she asked.
‘It’s lovely,’ I whispered.
‘Have a little browse,’ she said. ‘You can borrow anything you fancy. You look a very careful girl.
There are children’s books over on that wall.’
I was used to bright little paperbacks. These were big blue and green and crimson storybooks with gilt decorations on the spine, and very large leather-bound fairytale picture books. I ran my finger very lightly along their curves.
‘Take them out and have a look at them,’ said Mrs Wilberforce. ‘Choose one to take home. But don’t read it at the table. I don’t want any sticky finger marks or grease spots on my books.’
‘Oh no, I promise,’ I said. ‘Mum doesn’t let me read at the table anyway. Were these your books when you were a little girl?’
‘Yes, and they were mostly my mother’s books, my grandmother’s too. They used to be in the proper library in the big house.’
‘So was Melchester College your house?’
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runs it. I used to teach the little ones dancing and music but now . . .’ She gestured down at her legs under the shawl, bangles jingling.
I wanted to ask what had happened to her but didn’t want her to think I was being rude or nosy. I just made an odd mumbling noise which I hoped sounded sympathetic.
I picked out The Secret Garden because I’d seen the film on television and loved it.
‘A very good choice,’ said Mrs Wilberforce, smiling at me as if I’d passed an exam. ‘There’s a big house called Misselthwaite Manor in that book and it has one hundred rooms. I remember walking all over Melchester when I was a little girl, starting right up in the attics, counting each room in turn to see if I could get to a hundred.’
‘And did you?’
‘No, sadly not. I can’t remember how many there were. You’ll have to count them for me and see. I don’t suppose I’ll ever be able to get up there myself.’ She pressed her lips tightly together – but then managed a smile. ‘Now, we’d better not neglect our guests. I shall nudge Harold into the kitchen.
I’m sure you’re all starving.’
‘Can I help?’ I said. ‘Or maybe my mum?’
‘Oh no, Harold has two stalwart helpers already
– Mr Marks and Mr Spencer. They do all the hard work.’
I imagined two men in white chef ’s hats whisking and stirring in her kitchen – and then the penny dropped. We enjoyed a Marks and Spencer supper: wonderful luxury ready-prepared food we were never allowed at home. The grown-ups drank wine, and Mr Wilberforce really did pour Jodie a 74
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tiny glass, though Mum frowned. I had red cranberry juice and pretended it was wine. I had glass after glass, washing down the delicious food. We had tiger prawns to start with, great juicy monster prawns, not the weeny pink slithers Mum cooked.
Then we had chicken Kiev with broccoli spears and fancy mashed potato, and then we had enormous strawberries with dollops of double cream.
It was the most glorious meal I’d ever eaten.
There were even chocolate truffles and Turkish delight when the grown-ups drank their coffee. I ate and ate and ate, very happy to be ignored again, though Mrs Wilberforce smiled at me every now and then. She spread her huge napkin carefully over her lap but ate very neatly and nimbly with one hand, not spilling a morsel. When we’d all finished, Mum started stacking our plates, determined to help at last, but Mr Wilberforce took them from her.
‘No, no, you’re a guest in our house tonight, my dear. Your culinary duties don’t start until tomorrow. There’s just a handful of sad little Orphan Annies who don’t get to go home for the hols. You’ll cook for them, and rustle up a spot of breakfast and lunch for the under-matron and Frenchie and me too, if that’s OK – but you won’t find yourself too stretched until term starts. But I’m afraid you won’t get off so lightly, Joe. There are any number of urgent jobs. The college is getting very old and cracked and leaky and creaky, like me!
We’ll have a quick recce of the house and grounds after breakfast tomorrow and work out which jobs to tackle first.’
‘But we’re on holiday,’ Jodie said happily, winking at me.
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‘No, no, you two need to give me a hand,’ said Mum. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t let them run wild.’
‘Well, Jodie can run wildly if she takes Shep along too,’ said Miss French. ‘He needs all the exercise he can get.’
‘And your job is to come and visit me, Pearl, and confer with me in my library,’ said Mrs Wilberforce.
Mum frowned, irritated that they were telling us what to do, but she didn’t like to object. She kept looking at her watch, fussing about our bed time. It was half past ten by the time we got away. I was dying to have a wee after four glasses of cranberry juice but I didn’t like to ask to go in front of everyone.
I whispered to Mum as we set off down the path.
‘Why didn’t you say?’ she said, exasperated. ‘Well, you’ll just have to wait. It’s not far.’
‘I don’t think I can wait,’ I said.
‘Don’t be silly, Pearl. Think about something else,’
said Mum. ‘I wish they had proper lamp-posts, it’s not very safe when it’s so dark.’
‘I’ve got you safe, Shaz,’ said Dad, putting his arm round her. ‘And my girls,’ he added.
‘The father did his best to protect his little family on their perilous path home, but as they approached the dark mansion, they heard a baying in the distance,’ said Jodie.
‘Jodie! Don’t start now!’
‘Don’t make me scared, I’ll wet myself!’
She threw back her head and howled like a werewolf, but then got distracted. ‘Look at the stars,’ she said, reaching for my hand.
We stared up at the sky, heads tilted right back.
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of them. That’s the Pole Star, the big brightest one, but what are all the others?’
‘I don’t know. There’s meant to be a Great Bear and a Little Bear – and a Goldilocks eating their porridge,’ said Jodie.
‘Rubbish! I’ll have to find a book about stars,’ I said.
‘Your new pal Mrs Wilberforce can lend you one,’
said Jodie.
‘She’s a bit odd, that one,’ said Mum. ‘I don’t mean because she’s, you know, in a wheelchair. It’s just like she’s in a daydream all the time. Maybe she’s not quite right in the head.’
‘She seemed fine to me,’ said Dad. ‘It must be awful for her, being so helpless.’
‘I wish she’d let me lend a hand. It seemed dreadful that he had to do all the cooking. Well, not that you could call it cooking. Imagine, inviting us to dinner and just giving us a ready meal.’
‘Oh, come off it, Shaz, they did their best.’
‘Sharon! No, it’s madness. I bet they paid a fortune for all that chicken, when I could have bought a couple of birds and done them a lovely fancy coq au vin.’
‘I thought the chicken
was lovely. Much much better than anything we ever have,’ said Jodie tactlessly. ‘Pearl, what’s up, you’re walking funny.’
‘I’m very nearly wetting myself,’ I said desperately.
‘Really! You’re not a baby,’ said Mum. ‘Look, nip into the bushes and have a wee there.’
‘I can’t!’ I said, but I realized I’d have to, or I really would disgrace myself.
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be any werewolves lurking. I fumbled in the dark, just about managing, and then pulled my knickers up. I stepped sideways, caught my foot in a bramble and slipped down a sandy bank. I flung my arms out – and caught hold of someone!
I opened my mouth to scream.
‘No, please, ssh, you’ll scare him!’ someone whispered.
He loomed way above me but his voice was light and high, a boy’s voice.
‘Scare who?’
‘The badger! Look!’ he hissed.
I opened my eyes wide and stared around.
‘There!’
I could just make out a big mound with tree roots sticking out. There was a dark hole and a face peering out, a long face with a white stripe.
‘I see it!’ I whispered, transfixed.
We crouched, watching. My heart thumped wildly, wondering who this great tall boy was and whether he’d heard me having a wee. Then the badger ambled right out, its head going from side to side. It was bigger than I’d thought, with a stocky chest and powerful paws. It was the strangest, most magical animal I’d ever seen. I breathed in sharply and heard the boy do the same.
‘Pearl! Where are you?’ Jodie shouted, crashing through the bushes.
The badger retreated rapidly into its burrow.
‘Blast!’ the boy whispered. ‘Who’s that idiot?’
‘It’s my sister,’ I said.
Jodie yelled for me again, louder now.
‘Oh well. You’d better go to her. What are you doing here anyway?’
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‘Our mum and dad are going to be working at Melchester College.’
‘Oh. Right. I’m at the school too. I’m Harley. And you’re . . . Pearl? Look, don’t tell your sister about the badger set, OK? She sounds much too noisy and shouty, she’ll scare them all away. Keep it a secret, yeah?’